Cracks
by Fictionaldown
Summary: When Lestrade receives a text from Sherlock informing him of a new crime scene, the last thing he expected was to find that Sherlock had murdered their suspect. Sally Donovan might have expected it, but her glee at finally getting to arrest the Freak may have blinded her to the obvious. Trigger warning: Off screen non-con.
1. Chapter 1

It was already looking like one of those nights. Lestrade was driving way too fast and cursing intermittently under his breath. Anderson was sulking in the back seat, as he'd been doing for the past week, since apparently she can't want to concentrate on this frankly horrific case and not on his constant neediness. Which, in all honesty, was a complete turn off and was making her seriously reconsider the 'on again' part of their current 'off again'. And Sally? Sally was fully expecting to have to play keep away with the media bright and early tomorrow morning, because there was no way they were not going to sniff this one out.

This case was one of those that was going to keep her up at night for years to come. Their killer didn't seem to have a type aside from 'pretty'; he didn't keep to male or female victims, didn't hold to any type of pattern they could see. They had nothing in common that they could find. And the violence of the attacks...she'd seen a lot in her years working beside Lestrade, but this one was definitely going to haunt her. There had been three victims so far, one older female, and two young males. All had been raped, and then just...brutalized. Tortured to the point of death, and then killed by simply waiting; all but one of them had bled to death, and the reports said it would have taken at least an hour in each case.

They had found the third victim this morning, after a five day lull. He couldn't have been more than 25 years old. They hadn't even been able to confirm his identity yet, which is why she hadn't argued when Lestrade had called in the Freak. Oh sure, she blustered as much as usual, but secretly, she just hoped he solved it quickly. If they had many more victims, there would be public panic as word got around. It would make their jobs that much harder.

So this morning, Holmes had breezed onto the scene, that doctor of his at his heels, and spouted off enough to give them some solid leads. He'd run off after a few leads of his own, and left them with the more tedious work known as actual investigating.

It had been near midnight when Lestrade got the text. It wasn't the 'found your man for you, idiots' text she'd been hoping for.

_New crime scene_, was all it had said, followed by an address. Which likely meant they were in for an all nighter, followed by what was almost certain to be a very grueling press conference in the morning.

So that was how they'd ended up screaming through traffic a bit too fast than was warranted for the situation, Lestrade cursing, Anderson sulking, and Sally trying to come up with clever ways to calm the bloodthirsty press in a few hours.

They screeched to halt outside the building, which turned out to be what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Cliche and predictable, but she supposed there was a reason for that.

The room they entered was soaked in darkness, a feeble little camping light trying to chase it away and failing miserably. The scent of blood was thick in the air, and very, very close to the little lamp that could, was a body.

She was confused at first, because this wasn't the way the bodies are generally displayed by this killer. First off, it was clothed. Second, the victim was no where near their killers type; she could see enough under the blood spattering his face to know that no one would describe this guy as 'pretty'.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out, and then jumped when a voice came from the corner of the room.

"Here. Your killer, Lestrade." His voice sounded...off. Rougher than usual perhaps.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what happened? Where's John?"

"I believe it's obvious that there was an altercation and I killed him." It chilled her a bit, to hear those words spoken with such a lack of emotion.

"You what?" Sally blurted before she could help herself, flicking on her torch and shining it toward the Freak.

"Killed him, Sally, do keep up." The torchlight found his face and he jerked his chin to the right, closer to the lamp. "The victim was restrained there, face down over the table. This one fought more than the others; you can see the marks on the floor where the table was violently shoved several times. The cuffs were looped around that pipe there. Your victim was lucky enough to break a thumb and slip one of the cuffs before the killer got bored and ended it."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade trailed off, glancing over the body again. The guys throat had been hacked open, violently. "Sherlock this doesn't look good for you, you know that right?"

The freak just blinked at him, several times in fact, apparently bothered by the torchlight in his face.

Lestrade sighed.

"Right, well then, where's John?"

"Upstairs."

Greg gripped his forehead tightly for a moment.

"Sherlock, you know we have to bring you in. I am sure it was self defense, but we have to...anyway. Sally, take care of it. Anderson, start processing the body and call in your team. I'm going to..." he gestured warily, and headed up the rickety stairs.

Sally grinned, she really couldn't help it. This was something she'd been waiting for for a long, long time. Sure, he'd get off, wasn't even likely to see trial with that brother of his that she'd seen lurking about more than once, but actually getting to slap the cuffs on him and shove him in the back of the car? Almost enough.

"Well then, Freak, this has really made my night. You want to resist a little, feel free." She smirked at him, and pulled out her cuffs. It was petty, she knew. But god, did he have it coming. This would carry her happily through his insults for the next month at least.

Anderson wasn't processing the scene yet, content to watch as Sally approached Holmes, but he had set up another light source. It was still incredibly dark; she could see little more than the Freak's face, everything else was obscured by that coat of his, but there was some purplish bruising dusting lightly across one cheekbone, along with a bit of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Yeah, he was definitely going to get off on self defense.

She grabbed his right arm, automatically spouting Miranda at him.

"You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defense..."

She pulled up the sleeve of his right arm, watching his face, distantly noting how pale it was becoming and how he wasn't tearing his eyes away from her cuffs. She slapped the cuff in place without looking, and tightened it a bit more than she'd later admit. His whole body jolted, but he didn't resist.

"...if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say..."

She grabbed his other arm and yanked up the sleeve, only to be startled by the sound of clinking metal as something fell from the cuff of his coat. He jolted again, and made a soft sound in the back of his throat, something she'd never heard before and to hoped to never hear again. His eyes clenched shut tightly.

She stared dumbly at the dangling handcuffs for longer than she really should have. His pale wrist was shredded and bleeding freely, the silver metal stained and grimy and...

She dropped both of his hands and stepped back with a short cry of shock, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She wasn't as stupid as he made her out to be after all, and the picture fell into place so violently she was surprised no one else in the room heard the crash.

"What, did he pinch you?" Anderson sneered from behind her. "Need some help? Please say you..."

"Daniel. Shut up. And go get Lestrade."

"Shut up? For fucks sake, Sally, it isn't as if..."

"Now! And call an ambulance as well." She shouted, and it came out half strangled. Holmes' muscles jerked again, and she raised her empty hands and moved back toward him. Behind her, there was a sharp intake of breath from Anderson, maybe he'd put it together as well, but she honestly couldn't give a shit at the moment. She focused all of her attention on shifting her perception from 'bane of my existence' to 'victim rapidly sliding into shock'. The cuffs were tinkling softly now, one set dangling from each wrist, as he trembled. He was blinking again, fluttering eyelashes over eyes that were way too glassy for her liking, and she knew his brain was scrambling to keep up.

"The killer had combat training, but it wasn't professional, likely learned from a friend recently returned from military service, his accent suggested he hailed from..."

"Sherlock. I didn't notice, I am sorry, but I am going to take those off now, is that alright?"

He tried to sneer, but it came across as more of a grimace than he likely intended.

"Of course you didn't Sally, you all see what you want, not what is actually there, you don't observe, _idiots_, the lot of you, you..." he trailed off, blinking again, his muscles locked tight as Sally reached forward with her key to remove the cuff she'd put on him. She looked this time, she _observed_, and saw the horrific swelling in his right hand along with more blood and rent flesh from his struggles in the cuffs. He stood frozen as she gently undid the cuff and tossed it across the room. He jerked his hand back when she reached for the other.

"Don't." he said so quietly, she almost didn't hear it.

"You are going into shock, let me get the cuff off and then you can sit down, alright?" She tried to keep her voice soothing, but couldn't help but think she was failing. This was Sherlock, after all, it wasn't as if she could lie to him to keep him calm.

He choked out a laugh, and closed his eyes, exhaustion marring his features.

"Not possible."

She swallowed harshly, and moved toward him again.

"Just let me..." she quickly undid the last cuff, making what she hoped were soothing noises when it stuck to his swollen flesh, and let it fall to the floor with a resounding clang. Sherlock tried to pull away, but he slipped, and she instinctively grabbed him, holding him upright. His eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, before resettling as completely dazed. The subsequent jostling moved him further into the light, and she found herself staring stupidly at his bare feet while his head lolled briefly on her shoulder. His bare feet, and the blood trailing down the sides and back of his bare calves. She realized he must be naked under the coat. Of course he would have grabbed it, wanted to cover up before people arrived, a common response for victims of...

How sad was it that she couldn't even acknowledge it in her head? She was specially fucking trained for this, she'd done it several times, if not dozens in her lifetime. She took classes on the psychology of victims to better understand how to help them, and was damned good at it. Of course, like everything else, that all failed spectacularly when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

She was in the process of trying to lower him to the floor when he started fighting her. His attempts were weak and unfocused, but the shock was rapidly setting in, and she didn't want to hurt him.

"Sherlock, don't, it's fine, we're going to help you." Her soothing voice was starting to sound awful to her own ears now, stupid and flat and not enough...

"Stop, just let me go home, I'm fine..." he mumbled, before letting out a terrible groan when she finally got him laying on the ground. He stopped for a moment, his eyes glassing further as he fought to remain conscious. A shattered bit of a shriek was bitten off suddenly in his throat and he was batting weakly at her hands.

"Lestrade! We need the doctor, now!" she shouted toward the stairwell. Sherlock doubled his efforts, his entire body trembling and nonsensical words pouring from his mouth. She pressed firmly on his shoulders to keep him as still as possible.

There was a loud crash from upstairs just then, followed by raised voices.


	2. Chapter 2

The noise startled Sally more than anything else had that night. She kept one heavy hand on Sherlock's chest, instinct taking over as she placed herself between the stairwell and her victim. She finally relaxed when she realized it was only John and Lestrade, though why'd they be shouting was something she didn't want to waste brain power on at the moment. Before she turned back, Anderson was stumbling back down the stairs, paler than she'd seen him in a very long while.

"They're coming, Lestrade is getting John free. Shouldn't be much longer. Ambulance is en route as well." He was whispering. Why was he whispering?

"Alright, fine, just...help me."

Sherlock had stopped swatting at her arm at some point. His eyes were rolling lazily around the room, the silver gleam half hidden by deep shadow and heavy eyelids.

"This was a paper mill, years ago." Sherlock said. His voice was still cracking but the emotion had vanished again.

"Yeah? How do you know that? Sure you aren't just making it up?" She struggled to keep her voice level and not at all soothing now, as she began to work the buttons on his coat. He was bleeding pretty heavily and she needed to locate the source and try and contain it until help arrived. Anderson moved one of the lamps closer, and produced a penlight from somewhere.

"Of course I'm not making it up, can't you see the cracks?"

"What are you on about cracks now?"

She undid the final button and began to pull the coat open, but he flung one arm over his chest to stop her.

"What are you doing?" His voice remained calm and detached, cold even, the same voice she'd heard at so many crime scenes.

"You're injured, Sherlock, some genius you are huh? I need to see where you are bleeding."

"Stomach, back, and..."

He swallowed, and turned his face away, the emotion returning. He drew in several deep, shuddering breaths.

He finally allowed her to twitch open the coat when Anderson tried to check his pupil reaction with the penlight. He balked and now Anderson was being treated to weak, sloppy blows.

She studiously avoided any areas below the belt for the moment and concentrated on the jagged gash that appeared to wrap around from his back toward his belly button. He had to have twisted away at just the right moment. Otherwise the knife would have gone through his lung or something else equally as important and he would have bled out there on the table.

It appeared that a good majority of the blood had come from this wound. It was ugly and huge; what she could see was the length of her own forearm. Grabbing some wads of gauze from the kit Anderson had produced from somewhere, she shoved it against what looked like the deepest part, glad to finally be doing _something_ other than gaping like a fish and trying desperately to hold together a man who had never appeared to be anything less than made of stone. He twisted violently at the pressure, hissing what sounded like curses between his teeth in what might have been French. She noticed a dark, straight line of bruising across his lower abdomen. The points of his hipbones were scraped and ugly, matching perfectly with the edge of the table. Once again, she had to swallow back her nausea.

"Hey, I need you to keep talking to me yeah? I know you have to be dying to tell me what I've been up to today, dig out some secrets. Come on, impress me, Freak." She absolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that her voice shredded that last word into something nearly unrecognizable. Continuing to scan his trembling form, she noted how many bruises were blooming across his chest and stomach before her eyes.

"You were late to work this morning." The sentence burst from his chest on an exhaled gasp, coinciding with her pressing more gauze into the gash.

She forced a snort.

"You knew that already, come on, losing it are you?" She shot a glance at Anderson. "We need blankets, now, there should be some in the car." He just blinked at her. "Go get them, for fucks sake!"

Sherlock made another sound as Anderson scrambled to his feet, a tiny shaking moan that turned her stomach again. "Sally, that hurts, just leave it..."

"Hey, you're supposed to be focusing on impressing me with that giant brain of yours, get on it."

He coughed out a chuckle.

"Hardly a challenge."

Inexplicably, she found herself fighting tears, just that quick. She refused to let them gain purchase, something learned in her bitter fight through the boys club to where she is now, and used her free hand to check the pulse in his throat. It wasn't good. She was no doctor, but first aid training had taught her enough to know when something was wrong.

"Sherlock, you need to focus on staying awake alright? Shock could kill you just as quick as anything else, and I will not be the one to suffer the wrath of John Watson if you give up. You hear me?" She finally forced her self to look lower, confirming the splashing of blood between his thighs, mostly dried now but he was likely going to need stitches none the less. Anderson returned a bit out of breath with three blankets from the car, two thread bare and brown, one shockingly orange and newer. She remembered chuckling over a similar blanket at a crime scene once, laughing behind her hand at the arrogant detective finally brought a bit lower.

"John...John is upstairs." She removed pressure on the gash long enough to wrap the blanket around his legs, using the second to cover his chest.

"You told me that already." The third she wadded up and propped his legs up as best she could.

"That would be the shock then. Or maybe the injection. There was a..." He trailed off as his eyes glassed over again. Sally shoved her hand back under the blanket to hold down the bloody mess of gauze, cursing at herself for forgetting about the subtle injection marks on the previous victims. Another groan of pain broke free and his breathing picked up. She realized he was going into another bout of confusion, and tried to head it off.

"Sherlock, breathe, slow and deep, it's not hard, come on." She flipped a corner of the blanket up to check the side of his hip, and sure enough, there was a tiny puncture and some bruising, hard not to miss considering the mess of him. She was comforted by the fact that they couldn't find any trace of drugs in any of the victims, which meant it hadn't killed them and had left the system rather quickly. She debated turning him on his side in case he vomited, but couldn't see doing that without causing significant pain.

"Stop, stop, stop..." he was fighting her again, more desperately this time, his fingernails clawing into her wrist. She pressed harder, ignoring the pain, and tried to use her free hand to control him.

"Sherlock!"

Someone shoved her roughly to the side, and it took everything she had not to outright attack John Watson. This fierce protectiveness was clawing desperately at her, trying to find an outlet, and from the look in his eyes, it would have ended very badly for her.

Lestrade was back downstairs as well, and she wondered how on earth she hadn't heard them approach.

"Don't touch him." John's voice was terrifying, and there was blood dripping into his eyes from an obvious head wound. His own wrists were a bit mangled, but he otherwise appeared unhurt. There were two victims now. Sherlock was horribly injured, and the only person that seemed to give a damn about him had been forced to listen to his torture. She took a breath, and made a decision.

"From what I can tell he's been stabbed, the cut is about 12 inches long, deep. I've packed it as best I can. I didn't want to roll him over, but from his reactions I would say his back is as torn up as the rest of the victims were. Significant bruising on his torso and legs, as well as signs of sexual assault. He said he's been injected with something, and there's a mark on his right hip that corresponds with the other victims. He's alternatively distant and confused, and has been combative. His pulse is weak and thready, I've started first aid for shock."

John stared at her, blinked, and the rage drained from his eyes. The solider took a backseat, allowing the doctor to step forward. He nodded briskly, and went to work.

She watched, relegated to the side lines and John grabbed flailing hands and leaned over, attempting to get his patients attention.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Sally struggled briefly with the fact that his soothing professional voice was much better than hers.

Sherlock stilled almost immediately, and those half lidded eyes tried to focus on the doctor.

"John! I was wrong about the killer, he didn't wait another five days. I thought that was the pattern, not the buildings, the buildings were just _convenient_, but I was wrong, there's..."

"Sherlock, stop, it's alright. Don't worry about that right now. Did you receive any head trauma?" John snatched the penlight from a gaping Anderson and shone it into Sherlock's eyes.

"I don't...know."

John nodded tightly, and moved to rummage through the kit, sighing in frustration at the lack of supplies. She lent forward and snatched a stray piece of gauze from the box, swiping away the blood dripping from John's wound. He gave a grim smile in thanks, but otherwise didn't acknowledge her.

She stood, useless again, irrationally reluctant to let a professional take over. Her hands were shaking, and covered in blood.

"Sally."

She stared at them and then around the room, feeling cold. The room was darker and more distant than she remembered.

"Sally!"

Lestrade's hand closed around her arm and jerked her around to face him.

"Hey. I didn't notice either. You did good, Sally. He's going to be alright."

She laughed, bitterly, staring down at her hands again.

"Physically, maybe. This isn't something you just get over, not even for him."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for all the reviews and follows. It's nice to know that people are enjoying this :)

John's fingers were slick with blood, and he fumbled as he jammed another roll of gauze against the massive gash in Sherlock's side, struggling to keep his friend from bleeding out under his hands, and _where the fuck was that ambulance_?

It had only been about five hours previously that they had entered the warehouse, Sherlock being convinced that the next victim would be taken there in three days time. He might have been right, they'd never know, because the killer had apparently been scouting the location as well.

It was embarrassing how easily the bastard had surprised him. He hadn't even been armed; they weren't expected any sort of danger when they'd headed out. John had simply turned a corner, shouting over his shoulder something or other about another room to Sherlock. He had walked right into a well placed blow to the temple with what he vaguely remembered as the butt of a gun. After that he remembered the stunning, aching pain of a vicious blow to the head, fumbling stupidly for a weapon that wasn't there, and then...nothing.

When he'd woken, he had no idea how much time had passed. He was tightly cuffed to a metal pipe, alone in a tiny room that might as well have been a storage closet. He'd shouted until he heard noises from below, soft scrapes, something that could have been muted voices, but he couldn't be sure. Cold, visceral fear had washed over him when he heard the first scream, a guttural noise that sounded as if it had been ripped from Sherlock's chest. The man had a terribly high pain tolerance, so anything that could make Sherlock scream like that had to have been...awful. He spent the next however long there in the dark, listening, working himself into an ever increasing state of panic as silence fell. He'd nearly been to the point of chewing off his own hand when Greg had shouted his name outside his little prison. After that it had been all frantic shouting and cursing on his part while they struggled to get the cuffs off of him. All that mattered at that point was getting to Sherlock, the rest of them could go hang for all he cared.

Sally had done a good job, he grudgingly admitted to himself. When he'd first rushed down the stairs, the sight of someone who despised Sherlock so much, right there, touching him...It had been enough to wash his vision in red. How she'd had the clarity to know just what he needed to hear in that point, he'd never know, but he'd be secretly grateful to her all the same.

"ETA on the ambulance?" he asked, after clearing his throat.

"Five minutes, give or take." Lestrade said, moving closer. "How's he doing?"

"He's right here, and he is doing just fine, thank you." Sherlock voice was clipped and cold and not at all reflective of the situation. Considering the amount of trembling wracking his form, John was surprised that he'd gotten it out without a stutter.

"He's in shock, and he's lost a lot of blood, but I think he'll do. We just need to control the bleeding and keep him warm. Well done, Sally." John shot her a look, but she seemed a bit out of it herself. He didn't press, and turned back in time to witness what would have been a hilarious attempt at a sneer in any other setting.

"Stop it, stop talking around me, I am not some fragile _victim_." The last word was hissed like a curse. "This isn't even the worst I've been injured, it's not..." He blanked again, his eyes rolling around before settling on a far corner as he gulped for breath. John wasn't sure if it was the trauma affecting him or whatever drug he'd been given.

"Sherlock." He tapped on his friend's cheek. "Sherlock, look at me."

"John! I thought you were upstairs." He paused. "I've said that already, to Sally."

"Can you tell me the symptoms of what he injected you with?"

"Anxiety. Difficulty breathing. The shaking..."

"Sherlock?" John prompted, and drew his attention back.

"Lack of focus. I can't tell what's shock and what isn't. I am in shock, correct?" John nodded, watching Sherlock's eyes dart around the room.

"Anxiety. Periods of depersonalization. It had a sedative effect as well, though not enough to dull any...pain." Sherlock blinked several times. "Anxiety. I think it was a cocktail of some sort, nothing I've encountered previously has been as... John, have you noticed the cracks? Surely you have, you aren't as dull as this poor excuse for an expert."

John hadn't even registered the fact that Anderson was still crouched down near the two of them.

"No, Sherlock I didn't."

"_Useless,_" he hissed, and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Sherlock?"

"What? What could you_ possibly _need now? You are always...always...Right. The drug. Weakness, anxiety...depersonalization. John, I want to go home."

"I know Sherlock, but you need to be in hospital. Even you have to admit this is pretty serious."

"What use are you then? Live in doctor, and you can't even fix me?" Sherlock was spitting venom again, and John had to try very, very hard not to take it personally, considering how much help he'd been when Sherlock needed him most. "Hospitals are horrible, disease filled cesspits, full of dull, _useless _people, and..." His voice cracked on the last word, and they lost him for a moment again.

John tapped his cheek a few more times, reminding him to focus.

"Because the cesspit we call a kitchen table would be an optimal operating theater. You need surgery, Sherlock. I'm not sure I want to know what you left growing there this morning."

Sherlock's eyes rolled around the room again, and he squinted at Lestrade for a moment.

"I sent you a text... This morning? No, that was candidiasis, need to see if it can thrive in an adverse environment, never know when that..." His eyes focused on John again. "You keep saying my name like that. Why? You never say my name in that manner, and you are using it every time you speak, why are you doing that? Is it because of the shock? Or is it..."

His eyes fluttered closed, a breath ghosting out of him on the last word, and John had to swallow his back his panic and remember to check the other man's vitals. No amount of cheek tapping or name calling would rouse him this time, but luckily he was simply unconscious, not crashing. This would have been much more concerning if he hadn't just then heard the distant wail of the ambulance.

After that, everything slid into a blur of motion that brought to mind the scent of moist earth and gun smoke and the stink blood left to sun and sand for too long. There was a lot of shouting and giving orders to paramedics who were confused until Lestrade had explained that he was doctor. There was even more shouting when they'd arrived at St. Peter, but no amount of cursing would allow him access, and Sherlock was taken away. He knew, of course he did, that in their position he wouldn't have allowed a friend of the victim, doctor or no, into the trauma room either. That knowledge didn't stop him from seething, at some volume at first before it turned into quiet pacing. The stark brightness of the hospital was making him dizzy after the dim lighting of the warehouse. The sharp smell of antiseptics were making him nauseous. He'd never hated hospitals like Sherlock did, but he'd also never been on this side of the doors, and suddenly it all made sense. Half an hour after his best friend had disappeared into the hands of doctors who weren't him, a nurse finally talked him into the family waiting room. Some sort of international news channel droned on in the background while he imagined every step the doctors were taking, every stitch, every dose of medicine he would have given.

"Hey."

John looked up from his uncomfortable seat, startled out of his thoughts, to find Sally offering him a cup of coffee.

"I know it's pretty shit coffee, doubt they are legally even able to call it that, but it's better than nothing. You looked like you could use it."

"Thanks." He accepted the cup, and apparently she took that as an invitation to join him. She sat down, one uncomfortable chair away, clutching her own cup and staring at the wall opposite.

"They check you out?" She said suddenly, and his confusion must have shown on his face. "The head and everything." She gestured at his wrists.

"Yeah, the paramedics saw to it. I'm fine. Minor concussion."

"Good. Good." There was a moment of strained silence. "Look, I wanted to apologize. I know he won't listen, or likely care, but I've got to say it to someone, so..."

"Apologize? For what?" John noticed that she wouldn't look at him, just continued to stare at the wall.

"I tried to arrest him. Sherlock. I went as far as cuffing him before I noticed..." She stopped and took a drink of her coffee. "There was a body on the floor and there was Sherlock and he looked fine, and he confessed, and I was so bloody happy to do it...I'm sorry."

John took a few deep breaths to calm his anger at her confession. More shouting wasn't going to solve anything, and he'd seen for himself how calm Sherlock had been acting at times. There was no way he'd have deliberately drawn attention to his injuries before they were noticed. His left hand trembled, and he clenched his fist against it. He was silent for a long time.

"I know he and I aren't the best of friends, to put it mildly, but I would never...I would have spared him that if I were able. If I'd known, I wouldn't have...It's my job, you know, to prevent this sort of thing, to help people, and I utterly fucking failed at it, so yeah. Sorry." She made like she was about to get up and leave, but he grabbed her free wrist, stopping her.

"Sally, he might not have made it if not for your intervention, so don't. I want to apologize as well, some solider I was. Won't do either of us any good though."

Sally was quite for a moment.

"At least we can whinge about it now eh? No having it out around him, when he wakes up. Do you think...?"

John smiled tightly, and took a gulp of the bitter coffee.

"He's going to be fine. I can't see him having to much in the way of lasting effects, even with something like this. He'll be a fucking nightmare for a couple of weeks, he'll sort it out, and then never mention it or think about it again. And I really, really hope that isn't just wishful thinking."

Sally chuckled a bit and shook her head.

"Well, for once, I am glad he's a bit weird then. I hope you're right. He's got his own sort of...strength."

Lestrade joined them just then, looking more haggard than he had in all the time John had known him. John had assumed he was still at the scene.

"Guessing you'll be needing my statement, Greg?" John said, setting his coffee aside.

"No, it'll keep, at least until morning. Anderson is still processing the scene, figured I'd step away and see if there was any news."

"Nothing yet." Sally said.

Greg eventually sat. He stared at the television, John stared at the door, and Sally picked blood out from under her nails.

They waited.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up in hospital was never a pleasant experience.

It seemed hours before he could string a coherent thought together. In reality, it was likely only one at most before he was cognizant, but it seemed he had lingered forever in the twilight of tasting painkiller and sedative in the back of his dry throat, refusing to cooperate with anyone, and just wanting to go back to sleep. But the idiots kept shoving ice cubes at him and insisting he stay awake. "You need to be awake before we let anyone in to see you, after all!" an overly chipper nurse with badly dyed hair had told him.

Why would he want to see anyone right now? It wasn't as if he had much to say. They were going to want statements, and to talk, mostly about what had happened, and he..._he had nothing to give them_.

This was the point in any investigation where the victim was interviewed; and while _he knew_, _he remembered_, the general circumstances that led him to this bed, he did not recall any of the details. And details were everything.

Confrontations with serial killers were usually the best part of what he did. As much as they enjoyed showing their work, displaying their victims as if they were art, showcasing their brilliance in the face of an inept police force... Sherlock enjoyed showcasing _his_. That was the point of all this, wasn't it? It kept the mind numbing boredom at bay, and it enabled him to watch when it clicked that he knew, that it was over, that he'd picked out all the tiny, insignificant details that had eluded everyone else and _he'd won_.

As confrontations go, even though he'd technically won, this wasn't ever going to rank as anything other than a total failure.

He never thought he'd be one of those victims, the type he despised, who'd lost most of the event of their injury in the slick slide of drugs and trauma. Useless. He was supposed to be above all of that, he was supposed to remember everything in perfect detail. It bothered him that there were gaps, and what was most recalled were scents and feelings and pressure and not _details_. The whole night came to him in fits and starts; the initial exploration of the building fading in and out, greying detail on John's shout that ended in a sudden clatter. The edges of memory blurred and the colour faded to pale smoke during his initial unconcern about finding a gun aimed at his face by an unremarkable man. The bright silver of panic as the gun was then levelled at John instead and he was ordered to cuff himself across the table. The sting and slow burn of the injection, the subsequent struggle against the drug and the cuffs lost in acrid taste of fear as the man drug John from the room.

He honestly couldn't recall what the man looked like. He couldn't remember the exact circumstances that lead to him waking to find 57 stitches etched around his middle. He was sure he'd later be able to build a detailed explanation from the angle of the wound and the way it wrapped around his ribcage and edged toward his navel, but he couldn't remember actually receiving it, and that bothered him.

What he did remember of the actual attack was useless, of course. The hammering of his heart, the taste of blood in his mouth, pain as his voice shredded his throat. Clawing nausea and the stink of sweat and musk. The metallic gleam of the cuffs in front of him, the cracks in the wall behind. The knife that was suddenly in his hand, and the way the flesh of the other man's throat had parted like butter before it. Irritation at the blood on his mobile as he messaged Lestrade. The deep gashes in the floor around the table. Sally's hands and the crumbs caught in the edges of her sleeve showing how she'd eaten from the vending machine before heading this way. The brilliance of the the cuffs as she snapped one around his wrist. John appearing and dislodging the tightness that at set up shop in his chest since he'd vanished. The bright edge of his fury.

Every bit of it, _useless_. It couldn't be filed away neatly, categorized carefully and looked at objectively. They were going to want details, to be put in a report, and instead he was going to give them _nothing_, and they were going to nod understandingly while inwardly grinding their teeth as he'd seen happen so many times before.

He'd been alone for several minutes, caught in a vicious cycle of trying to remember what the man had looked like and getting stuck over and over again on those god forsaken cracks in the wall, when the door slid open.

He wasn't ready, and he was near to opening his mouth to shout them all from the room when he noticed that it was only John, who silently closed the door behind him, and approached the bed. John and no one else, no Lestrade or Sally to beg for details.

John who hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours, who hadn't eaten since he arrived, who had washed up in the hospital sink but failed to get all the blood from underneath his fingernails. He watched, fascinated as the crystalline edge of worry melted slightly from John's face as he watched Sherlock look him over.

"Feeling better then?" John asked softly, pulling the plastic chair beside the bed closer with a horrendous noise that fractured Sherlock's concentration for a moment. He must have startled or shied from the sound, because worry started to seep back into John's expression. It was too important, right now, to make sure that there were no signs of trauma on John or in the way he carried his frame. He remembered blood...

"You were bleeding; why were you bleeding? Have you been checked?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I've been checked, I'm fine." More softness entered the lines around the doctor's eyes. He reached out, wanting perhaps to provide comfort but unable to push himself to do so, and instead smoothed the sheets against the bed near Sherlock's hand. "I've spoken with your doctors. You should make a full recovery, though the scarring might be a bit dramatic for a while. Tonight, hopefully when the swelling goes down, you'll get your hand in a cast. Few days, and you'll be going home."

Sherlock made a face, twitching the fingers of his hand near where John was obsessively smoothing. "I assume you called Mycroft?" He knew his brother wouldn't set foot near him in this state, not yet. He knew better.

"I didn't have to, actually. The nurses are already gossiping about the gift baskets they've received, apparently for their continued patience with you. I am not sure if I am amused or insulted on your behalf." he chuckled a bit, then sobered. "But he did call yes. He was...concerned, to say the least."

"No doubt trying to get me transferred to a private clinic where he could control every step of the process."

"He deferred to me, actually. Bit surprising, all things considered."

Sherlock swallowed down the sudden gratitude he felt. "And Lestrade? I trust he will be in shortly for a..statement?"

John shook his head and moved closer to the bed, and after an abortive attempt, actually grabbed his hand this time when Sherlock didn't twitch away. "No, no statements, not yet. Not for you. I'm due in a few hours, there's no need for more just yet. Not like we are worried about more bodies showing up at this point. The others, they just want you to get better."

Sherlock found himself unable to look away from their intertwined fingers.

"I can't remember enough for a statement." he blurted, and John gripped his hand tighter as he was betrayed by the blasted machine counting out his heart rate.

"It doesn't matter right now, Sherlock. It was the drug, I'd wager. It'd have to be some seriously powerful stuff to knock you for six. And we'd both be dead if you weren't the most stubborn, ridiculous man I've ever met."

He was oddly grateful that John didn't spit platitudes like the nurses had, that it was a blessing he couldn't remember, that he should count himself lucky.

"I was...afraid he'd killed you." Sherlock sighed, exhaustion catching up with him, making him sentimental, making his head sink back into the pillow.

"Likewise." John squeezed his hand again as his eyes fluttered closed. He expected the grip to vanish shortly thereafter, but it didn't.

He lingered there, allowing the pain medication to wrap him in a comfortable fog, listening to John breathe.

When he finally began to drift off, it was to the odd but welcome feeling of John's fingers running softly through his curls.


End file.
